Wild Strawberries

With Malathi back from US, Rama evenings are booked; alone watch and re-watch non-commercial films; on Monday it was the second viewing of 1957 film Wild Strawberries written and directed by Ingmar Bergman. An old man trying to live on a retake of his childhood. A Wikipedia note on the origins of the film: 'Bergman's idea for the film came on a drive from Stockholm to Dalarna, stopping at Uppsala, his hometown. Driving by his grandmother's house, he suddenly imagined how it would be if he could open the door and inside find everything just as it was during his childhood. So it struck me --  what if you could make a film about this; that you just walk up in a realistic way and open a door, and then you walk into your childhood, and then you open another door and arrive in some other period of your existence, and everything goes on, lives. That was actually the idea behind Wild Strawberries.' Later he would revise the story of the film's genesis. In Images: My Life in Film, he comments on his own earlier statement: 'That's a lie. The truth is that I am forever living in my childhood.' Me chatted the idea with Rama and she agreed to turning back to times in Sreevatsam and Dombivili. Well, what happens when a childhood is bruised; there cannot be a flashback as it happens to Ajoba. After years, Ajoba confesses to not feeling sad when his parents died; he felt and still feels an unusual freedom. Yes, it hurts Ajoba but this has to be put down. Childhood was fear, fright: fear of a fierce father and slightly milder mother; of course, the extended family will disagree with Ajoba; but for Ajoba it was not a living; beaten up with utensils and cricket bats, some verbal abuse ... yes they did love .... but their love was hard for Ajoba to understand or grasp even at 70. And the prayers: morning, before going to school, after school, evening, night; and when festivals came, hell prayers; gods became a disgust; sure, Ajoba was well fed, clothed, sent to a priced school; they had hopes and Ajoba failed them entirely; they wanted Ajoba to hold a job with office paid home, car and all that as near and distant cousins; they were upset over a journalist Ajoba. Ajoba at 70 is afraid to dream of them. Yes, appa and amma were good, in their way, Ajoba never could make. A day after appa's death in Kolkata, Ajoba went for a walk to the Hooghly river and for a second laughed loud and free, touched the river's flow; yes, appa will not be any more to place a halter. Yes, Ajoba turned free after amma died. It was as if Ajoba had none to report to. No bosses; good bosses, yet bosses. Ajoba became entirely free. That meant he could not back flip into a childhood like Prof. Isak Borg (done by Victor Sjostrom) in Wild Strawberries. Ajoba has to peep into the future and that is living forever in a new wardrobe. Uncomfortable. No Wild Strawberries.    

A Song 106

In sadhu's orange,
a morning sun
at Assisi grounds,
footballs,
dribbles past kids
hailing 'Sir, pass, pass';
some tug him;
declines a goal move,
refuses a win. 

Kagiso Rabada

Kagiso Rabada and Keshav Atmanand Maharaj more newsy than South Africa win over Australia at Perth by 177 runs in the First Test. On a Perth pitch curated by an Australian, Kagiso Rabada, nickname KG, the fastie South African, takes 5 wickets in the second innings and in Australia none questions curator loyalties. They say Australia lost, fair and square. No excuses. Keith Pietersen in the commentary box thinks Rabada is the news in world Test cricket; parents professional, studied in South Africa at a school equal to Eton, says Keith. Seemingly, Michael Holding is tuning Rabada, the sweet spot of Test cricket and an able stand in for the injured and nearly retiring Dale Steyn. An easy run up and the right arm goes over in something of a classical bow to; missing is an up left arm; it gets tucked in; lots of shoulder; Mark Taylor in the box thinks he is good at reverse swing and a pace between 135 to 149 kmh; the bouncer is not one breaking into the face of the batsman as the West Indians of yore did; perhaps, Holding will tune up. No cricket playing nation has something like Rabada; me has been following him from South Africa against England to now Australia. Australia and England have not genuine pacers; frightening helmeted batsmen. From somewhere comes Keshav Maharaj, left arm off spinner with a straight arm action; South Africans have had no spinners to show for years; Imran Tahir never could be dubbed a spinner; they have one today in Keshav Maharaj, bowling well, the last day, without much flight. Mark Taylor thinks he bowled well and he should know. South Africa is missing de Villiers to set up a complete team against a rather unstable Aussie team. Sadly Perth stands were mostly empty with a few flavouring Rabada and Maharaj. Test cricket has no crowds today; maybe, England is outside the rule. The last England-Pakistan series did see crowds and me was backing Pakistan against England. 'Have you stopped watching cricket?' asked son Ganesh as me had not switched on to Perth. That remark hurt but was true. Cricket in the normal sense, Indian cricket in particular, does not enthuse me anymore; patriotic outpourings of most cricket commentators seem to be in bad taste; me belongs to the dated cricket of Bedi and Vishy; in India it is IPL not Test cricket. 'IPL mein majaa ata hai'. Do not think will watch India-England Test as they will be on Jadeja and Ashwin muddy patches; why not hold Test matches in neutral venues; say an Australia versus South Africa at Lord's; an England against India in Perth; after all Pakistan is playing most of its Test cricket in neutral venues. Neutral umpires go well with neutral grounds; TV ads talk of Virat Kohli venging the last series defeat in England under MS Dhoni; in that series, Kohli and Dhoni did not perform; Ajinkya Rahane and Ishant Sharma performed. Or it just could be me will watch as there will be DRS for the first time. Thanks Anil Kumble. Hope there are no Nagpurs. 

A Song 105

atop a mango tree,
scrawled a golden oriole
a bright yellow, black
morning.


....


squatting on A'ssissi grass
counting on grass
dew dots on grass.

A Song 104

goats wait for the butcher;
chickens wait in coops;
patients wait for
some call, 'kana doctor',
others, ent specialist,
with cones of laughter;
a wooden, name board
waits on the door
with timings,
unstuck;
a deaf maid with brooms
waits on a litter of deaf talk;
deaf lady attendants
wait on phones;
in his private chamber,
kana doctor
taps deaf ears with a tuning fork;
scribbles reports;
does not wait for fees - Rs.800 -
cash down,
no receipt;
asks deaf to make it again,
wait on a deafness.

    

November 2016

An October 2016 in Mumbai is unsweaty. November mornings, evenings, nights -- pleasant smiles. Peeping into darkness, setting out on a walk at 6 in the morning; Link Road has lost half its soul to coloured metal partitions for Metro Rail; through the nights machines, noisily drill and drill the Earth; insomniacs; a security guard thinks Metro Rail will slice the skies in five years after counting for funds filched by every soul related to the project; which, he says, is fine by Indian governance norms. Striding into LIC Colony, Ajoba waves arms, good mornings to trees known and unknowns; it does not matter, this knowing or not knowing Mumbai style; their leaves nudge and wave hullos, an acknowledgement; you cant deny they live; from post-rain hedges, beep blue morning glory and morning glory; they never miss the first week of November; frangipani and parijats in blistering bloom. Being early, the talking, hurrying walkers are absent, leaving Ajoba soul alone. At the Francis grounds, footballs thomp and thud waiting for footballers; they desire kicks; wait; and then there are more footballs in the air than on the grass. Ajoba watches, pockets the moment, as it may not be the same tomorrow. Ajoba is not into prayers, deep breaths, laughter clubs and all that; he likes to watch the world pass by having been a part of that world; today more an outsider than an insider; the sun bounces heads of the laburnum and rain trees; on electric wires sit and fly drongos; none has a watch or a timer; they are as long as legs hold; and then a resting on steel chairs before the walk back along Ayappa Mandir Marg and the Krishnan spot where Ajoba is sure to spot some bird, at least a crow; today counted three or is it four bharadwajs from some 15 feet away; a magpie robin marking the batting or is it bowling crease, being November; the first Test match between South Africa and Australia starts at Perth; perhaps, the magpie robin will switch on Star Sports HD to watch Hashim Amla bat; and then on a leafless tree, a koyal calling with his lady flying across; Ajoba pecked a house sparrow in thanks. Every morning is not the same. Like Ajoba is not every morning. But some days, Ajoba pockets a pack of joy; in his armchair, unpacks; for Aji waiting with coffee.   

A Song 103

Is exile, having no roots?
Is fugitive, having bleeding
tiffs with parents?
Is deportee, an absence of tongue?
Is proscription, not holding a
passport?
Is Ajoba,
without sister,
brother,
alone?
Is Ajoba alien?
Is Ajoba,
a mathematical,
absence;
unknown,
constant?
For sure,
Ajoba is still on.